Cursed
by cyropi
Summary: One thousand years ago, a curse was cast on Slytherin and all his descendants, a curse which was passed down over centuries to the present day, where Draco Malfoy’s life will be irrevocably destroyed…
1. Part One: Imperio

**Cursed**

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_Part One: Imperio_

* * *

**Disclaimer**:   
  
There once was an author called Cy  
Who said with a miserable sigh   
I wish I owned Potter   
A mouse and an otter   
But I don't. What a shame. Goodbye.

**Warning:** This fic is rather a hard PG-13, and as such may verge on a low R rating in some parts, mainly in the second and third parts, for violent imagery among other things.Please do not read if this would upset or offend you. Thank you.

**A/N**: Well, the first of three weeks has passed in a haze of arduous revision, broken only by visiting my sister and my newborn niece! If you want baby pictures, you can find one by clicking on my homepage link on my profile (and yes, that's me holding her) Isn't she adorable?

On to this story. When I asked my close friend and Delta what I should mention in my A/N, she suggested, '_Please_ don't hate me for what I've done,' and then said I should dedicate it to my baby niece, 'in the hope that she'll grow up pure and not twisted and horrible like you.' Beth, I dedicate this to you with the severe injunction that this is what you should _not_ think like.

As you may have guessed from the above, it's not a happy little story. This is part one: two and three will follow on the next two Fridays.

Oh, and in case you get confused; the first scene takes place in the past, and everything following that is in the modern day.

And I think that's all, apart from: Enjoy!

* * *

'She rejected me,' Salazar said simply, 'so I killed her.'

Godric clenched the hilt of his sword tightly, fighting down the terrible desire to wreak vengeance for Rowena's death, to hack Salazar's body into pieces and scatter them in the courtyard of Hogwarts for the crows to eat.

His eyes never moved from the scene: Rowena was lying in the exact centre of the room, her eyes closed and silken hair fanned around her, skin even paler than in life and unmarked by blood, though Salazar was drenched in crimson. Only the blue taint on her lips and the stillness of her chest showed she was dead.

Salazar was cross-legged by her side, playing with her hair as though she were merely sleeping, the light of half-madness in his eyes and his expression slack. 'I loved her,' he added, almost nostalgically.

'You never loved her.' Godric hissed, his voice twisted by pain and loss. Rowena had been like a sister to him, a sister and a friend, and the abruptness with which she'd been torn away from his heart made him ache and burn for revenge, but he held himself in check. As Rowena herself had been so fond of saying: _death accomplishes very little._

'I did,' Salazar told him, eyes unmoving, unblinking, trained on Rowena's face. 'I loved her. That's why I killed her. She wouldn't love me back.' He sounded almost petulant, like a five-year-old denied its favourite toy.

'If you had truly loved her, you would _never_ have killed her,' Godric spat, unable to stop the fire of rage and anger and hatred from erupting. 'Why! Rowena was the most powerful, the most peaceful, the kindest, gentlest, the noblest of all of us, and in one stroke you have stolen that from me, from the world! Why, Salazar? What madness drove you to murder, what insanity make you kill the greatest of us all?'

Salazar was silent for a moment. 'She wouldn't love me back,' he repeated, fingers still twining and untwining themselves in Rowena's hair.

Godric, unable to form words, gave out a cry of anguish, of pain and loss and hatred and anger, of horror at Rowena's death and misery and desire for bloodthirsty vengeance, of fury and dismay, all of which built up inside him to drown his mind in a wordless scream, so that when he spoke he barely knew what he was saying.

'A curse on you, Salazar, on you and on your descendents and on the descendents of your descendents until the world meets its fiery apocalypse! May it never be again that one of your line murders the most powerful, caring and noble mage of their time! May all the children of Slytherin be bound to protect the greatest mage of their generation, may they be bound never to harm them by word, blade or spell, by Rowena's blood may they be bound!'

And as the final word left his lips, he drew his sword, screaming, and flung it straight at Salazar, who had not moved or spoken once while Godric spat his curse. The sword shone gold in the sunlight as it flew through the air, the reflected light blinding for a moment, then it struck Salazar, passed straight through unhindered, and buried itself a hand's span deep in the wood of the wall opposite. There was a crash of thunder from the cornflower-blue sky outside, and with it a flash of immense power cut through the room, like lightening, ancient and powerful and inhuman.

Then there was silence, but for Godric's harsh breathing. A heartbeat passed, then slowly he crumpled to his knees, then fell to the floor, unconscious.

Salazar toyed with Rowena's hair. Throughout everything that had happened, his eyes had never left her face, nor had his fingers stopped playing with the silken strands of her hair.

* * *

_They will be waiting to attack you on the road into Hogsmede. Leave the carriages about half a mile from the village, then walk northwest until you reach the main street. You should avoid them that way. In Hogsmede, stay with your friends at all times, and have your wand at the ready. If you can, carry some other weapon to defend yourself, in case they disarm you. They are growing tired of failure and I do not know what they may resort to in their attempts to harm you._

The note wasn't signed – they never were – but years of experience had proved that the sender, whoever he or she was, was trustworthy. Hermione had received similar letters since… when was it? She'd been six, she supposed, when she'd woken one morning to the very first letter, lying mysteriously on her bedside table, a child's messy handwriting warning her what the school bully was planning to do that day. Thanks to the letter, she'd avoided the plan that had sent three of her classmates home early in tears.

They'd started coming more often after she started attending Hogwarts, warning her about the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, hinting at the existence of the Basilisk. They'd told her that Scabbers was a danger, though she hadn't believed them until they were proven true. They'd said she should be wary of Moody, and warned her of a hundred incidents that could have harmed her.

They'd become far more frequent in the past year, as the war had escalated and not even Dumbledore could keep the rivalries within Hogwarts from breaking into open fighting. Anyone close to Harry was in danger from those allied with Voldemort. The writer of the letters knew, somehow, what attacks were being planned on them, so they could avoid the danger. The annoying thing about them was that they sometimes didn't give quite enough information, teasing hints as though the writer didn't want to give away too much, but was compelled to protect her.

The writer. She still didn't know who he was. Or she, but the tone of the notes suggested a male. When she was little, she'd heard stories about guardian angels and fancied that the letters must be from hers, before she'd grown older and dismissed that as myth and fable. Upon going to Hogwarts and learning that much of fantasy was true, she'd tried to discover if angels were real, if the letters had some explanation, but none was forthcoming. Angels appeared to be completely mythological, and she could find no mention of mysterious letters bearing warnings.

She still thought of the letter-writer as 'my angel', though.

With a smile, Hermione read over the letter again. Half a mile from Hogsmede… she would find a map and work out where that ought to be. Taking a fresh piece of parchment from her desk, she scribbled her thanks and an assurance that she would take the advice, then tied her letter to the owl.

'Take it back to whoever sends me the warnings,' she whispered to it, giving the smooth feathers on its head a stroke, then taking it to the window and letting it fly free.

She turned and left to pass the warning on to her friends.

* * *

The owl soared from the top of Gryffindor Tower, gliding powerfully on the open air as if postponing the task it had to do. Taking a message back to its master was never pleasant. He much preferred the brown-haired girl and her airy tower…

But an owl had to do its job. Dolefully, it began to sink down, its sharp eyes carefully searching for the little stone entryway. Its destination was underground – under the lake, if his owl senses told him right – and there were no breezy windows to fly through. Instead, a stone passage had been provided, one which led straight into the Slytherin common room, especially for the owls to use.

Finding the passage entrance, he reluctantly dropped into it, feeling the unsettling brush of magic wards against his feathers. The wards were almost unnecessary - humans could never fit through this passage anyway, and no other animal wished to wage war on the strange, featherless, furless, scaleless creatures that held dominion over the world.

Emerging into the noisy, dark room, the owl was momentarily disorientated, but soon spotted its way – that bizarre device called a staircase. It flew up, oddly angled in the stairwell, and kept going till it reached the top.

The door was open, and the room empty but for its master. He was sitting on his bed, pale silvery hair drifting around his face, grey eyes alert.

He looked up as the owl perched on his bed, appearing displeased. 'I should find a less intelligent owl to do this job,' he frowned, reaching out for the letter, 'then maybe, when I warned that Mudblood of some huge danger, she wouldn't get the letter. Then she'd die.' He grinned malevolently, eyes glittering.

The look soon faded though, as he scanned the letter briefly and his eyes darkened. 'She always sounds so damn… thankful. As if I'm some angelic good guy doing all this out of the goodness of my heart.' He scowled, and the owl was almost frightened to see how such pale eyes could appear so… black. He hooted softly, but Draco took no notice.

'As if I wouldn't kill her if I could,' he continued, crumpling Hermione's letter in one hand. Angrily, he threw it into the fire that burnt on the opposite wall from his bed. He got it in neatly – he'd done the same many times before, and practice had improved his aim.

He sighed, the murderous look draining from his face, and reached out to stroke the owl's feathers. The exact same place that Hermione had stroked five minutes earlier. If Draco had known, he wouldn't have touched the creature.

'Bloody Godric…' he muttered under his breath, staring at the fire, eyes narrowing.

The door opened suddenly, startling the owl, which hooted loudly. It snapped Draco out of his thoughts, and he looked around crossly.

'Draco,' said Blaise impatiently, standing in the doorway, 'what on earth are you doing up here? It's time to go. The ambush? We need to get there before them to set up our positions.

'I was just coming,' he said. He glared at the owl, snatching his hand off its feathers as though they'd suddenly burnt him. 'Back to the owlery,' he spat harshly, standing up to leave, and the owl took off hastily. It knew better than to stay around when its master was in such a mood.

Twelve of them, packed into two of the Thestral-pulled carriages, silently toying with their wands. It was the silence that betrayed them as different from the other laughing groups of friends making their way to Hogsmeade, that and their grim, tense faces, their expressions empty, minds set on one purpose.

Attack.

All were Slytherins. All in fifth, sixth, or seventh year. All known to be allegiant to Voldemort, all known to be sworn enemies of the Light side. But they couldn't fight for real, with the black skull tattooed on their forearms and the black mask of a Death Eater hiding their faces. Neither were the childish exchanges of taunts and feeble curses acceptable to satisfy their growing desire to fight for their beliefs.

And so they were left with this. A bizarre combination of the two, planned by children, carried out by children, but with adult consequences and adult intentions. All of them would swear that, given the chance, they'd kill here today: most would carry through with that oath.

Twelve of them, against three, maybe four if a friend was daring enough to ride with them. Twelve of them with murder in their hearts. It did not bode well for the three.

Draco was the only one who knew that their intended victims wouldn't be coming today, and he hated himself for it. How dearly he'd love this attack to work, love to listen to the sweet, sweet music of terrified screams as they cowered before the superior Slytherins, love to watch them die, their faces twisted with pain. He hated all three of them, but he hated Hermione the worst.

He wanted to kill her himself. Oh, he hadn't learned the Unforgivables yet, but he knew Dark spells that would make her beg at his feet for the simple pain of the Cruciatius, the brief green flash of death that the Killing Curse brought. No. He wanted her to _suffer_.

But he couldn't, could he? He was cursed, an ancient curse passed down through the Slytherin bloodlines, from father to son, mother to daughter… To him. A simple curse, really, to protect the greatest witch or wizard of the generation, but oh, the consequences were dire when a Mudblood claimed the title of greatest. A foul, filthy, dirty _Mudblood_. A mutant.

There was the Muggle race and the superior Wizarding race, and that was how it should remain. But the second-class Muggles bred mutants, bizarre genetic malfunctions that had magical ability, like a monkey that could learn how to talk. Mudbloods were worse than Muggles – at least Muggles didn't claim to be the equals of wizardkind. Didn't end up being the 'most powerful, caring and noble' witch in his generation.

Scowling, Draco leant against the wall of the carriage and glared out at the passing scenery. More than anything, he wanted her dead, wanted her gone and out of his life. If he could have ten minutes without this foul curse…

'We're stopping here,' Blaise spoke up calmly. Draco frowned. They hadn't yet reached their agreed place…

Pansy appeared to have noticed this too. 'We're supposed to stop nearer to Hogsmede,' she informed Blaise with authority.

Blaise gave her a cool glare. 'Potter and his two sidekicks always manage to find out the details of our plans beforehand, presumably through spying,' Blaise pronounced carefully. 'Thus, by changing our plans at the last minute, we have more chance of success. Agreed?'

The other Slytherins nodded mutely. Blaise had been the initiator of their plans to attack the Gryffindor trio; she still held the reins of power, and they weren't about to try and seize them. Besides, it was a good plan.

Blaise gave them all a short nod. 'Good,' she said. 'Out, everyone, and stop the Thestrals.'

There followed a flurry of activity. The carriages weren't moving fast, so it was safe enough for two of their number to jump down and race to he front to stop the Thestrals so the others could get out, and shout to the second carriage as it followed behind them to stop. Then they had to hide the carriages and Thestrals in the thin strip of woodland that lined the roadside. They led the gruesome horses into the trees – very few of their group were unable to see Thestrals – and tethered them in a safe enough place. It was difficult to get the carriages to follow, but a good deal of spellwork got the job done. The Slytherins took up positions in the bushes by the side of the road, watching and waiting in silence.

And all the while, Draco was almost numb with horror. This wasn't a quick exchange of insults in the hallways, a few spells sent flying around before a teacher broke it up. This was a fight, a real fight with people out to kill. Out to kill Granger.

The spell wouldn't just let him stand by and do nothing. He could hurt her a little – a few insults, a basic curse or two – but not on this scale. It would force him to act, force him to block the others' spells and defend the filthy Mudblood and even die himself if it were necessary. That was what the curse demanded. He wouldn't even be able to let Potter or Weasley get too injured, he realised – gravely injured or dead would hurt Hermione, so the spell wouldn't allow him to let it happen…

Draco felt sick. He tried to escape in the chaos of hiding the carriages, but found he couldn't: he knew of danger to the Mudblood, and he had to protect her, which meant he couldn't leave her to face the danger alone. He had to be in the fight, and he had to defend her. And how could he do that without it being noticed? His fellow Slytherins would see, and Potter and Weasley would see, and _she_ would see, and then she'd want to know why. And he didn't want her to know, didn't want anyone to know. The curse was shameful. Forced to protect a Mudblood, the lowest of the low!

The sound of carriage wheels on the rough dirt pathway pierced his consciousness, and he tried to stay calm. It might not even be them, yet, it could be one of the other groups of students heading to Hogsmede. But it was still a little early for people to be making their way down, and people would be even more hesitant than usual, this year, with the fighting going on. Wait till the attacks are over, they'd say, it'll only be an hour or so – only the Gryffindor Trio would come down this early. Idiots.

And it was them; he heard Hermione's unsuspecting laugh, and instantly his pure blood boiled with rage. He hated her, simply because she was a Mudblood, and Potter's friend, and the one he had to protect, and because he had made it his lifetime's study to hate her.

In the bushes beside him, he saw his comrades shifting, ready to attack as the carriage approached. He clutched his wand tightly, wishing for some twist of fate, some lucky chance that would allow him to keep his curse a secret…

A curse was shouted to his left, another to his right, and the Thestrals gave their eerie alarm cries, rearing, as the chatter inside the carriage turned to horror. The Slytherin hoards burst out, each member knowing their role – three to the Thestrals, to cut them loose and prevent an untimely escape, the others to the carriage, to corner their victims.

Draco was one of the latter, running to the carriage doorway amid all the shouts and shrieks and hexes flying already. The curse was already acting, Hermione was in danger and he had to protect her, forced to by the curse embedded in his own pure blood. The Gryffindors were already emerging, wands drawn and battle-ready, looking determined but dismayed by the numbers of adversaries they were facing. Curses began to fly.

The three fifth years who had cut the Thestrals loose stayed to the edges, watching warily – their job was to prevent any of their victims from escaping. The remaining Slytherins were split into three groups, one for each Gryffindor. This was the strategic part, luring the trio apart while surviving the initial onslaught of spells. If they could separate them, it would be three against one, and even they couldn't stand up to those odds.

Draco was tense, eyes flickering between his allies, watching warily. He couldn't let them hurt Granger, the curse prevented him, but he couldn't turn traitor either. How to accomplish this…

They were separating now, the trio, as the Slytherins carefully prised them apart with spells and hexes. Hermione ended up behind the carriage, and Draco, Blaise and Pansy went with her, encircling her. Her eyes flashed with horror as she realised she'd been split apart from her friends; she tried to call out to them, but she was forced to concentrate on the fight as she narrowly dodged a quick curse from Blaise.

Mudblood. Draco's eyes narrowed: he wanted nothing more than her death, than her torture, yet still he was forced to protect her. He was careful. Whenever Blaise or Pansy shot a curse that was at all dangerous her way, he quickly muttered some simple spell – a Stunner, for example – that was carefully aimed to crash into the other spell and knock it off course. This quickly annoyed the two girls.

'For goodness' sakes, Draco!' Blaise shouted over the yells and cries of curses, 'Aim right or not at all!'

Scowling, Draco glared at Blaise and carried on. He couldn't tell the Slytherins about the curse – it would be weakness. He would be spurned, cast out. If it was anyone but a Mudblood, anyone but Potter's friend, they wouldn't care, but they would never accept him if they knew of this curse.

Still, Draco thought as he knocked yet another of Blaise's spells off course, they'd cast him out as soon as they realised he was protecting her anyway. A traitor, they'd call him, and hatred flared again inside him, a burning, painful hatred that eclipsed everything for a heartbeat with its vicious intensity.

Flushed from battle, Blaise called to them both, 'Use _Ipsae Odium_, if we all cast it together she won't be able to protect herself!'

Hermione paled, taking a step backwards but finding herself with nowhere to run. '_Protego_,' she muttered, and a thin shimmer in the air indicated the presence of a shield charm. Draco, gripping his wand tightly and cursing Blaise, knew why she was afraid. _Ipsae Odium_ – colloquially, the self-hatred spell, one which made the victim hate themselves so much they'd plead for death, beg for it on their knees. It could be blocked by the shield charm, of course, but not three spells at once…

And Draco had to protect her from it. Hermione's shield would block one of the spells, Blaise or Pansy's but not both. Two shields… two shields would block both spells. And the Mudblood would be safe, and Draco Malfoy would be a Muggle-loving traitor.

Hating her, he took a deep breath, caught Blaise's eye, and prepared himself.

'_Ipsae Odium!_'

'_Ipsae Odium!_'

'_Protego!_'

The two cyan flashes bounced harmlessly off the two separate shields and into the surrounding woodland, leaving a bubble in the midst of the fighting, a second's pause while attackers and victim gaped openly at Draco. He held his head high, refused to meet their eyes, and mentally cursed the filthy, unworthy, disgusting Mudblood with every swear word he knew.

Blaise shrieked in outrage, breaking the moment's pause, and attacked him. '_Imber Flammarum!_' she shouted, pointing her wand not at Draco but above him. Surprised for a moment, he didn't react fast enough, and a streak of fire caught his cheek, burning him, the searing pain momentarily driving all other thoughts from his mind.

'_Aquae Parma!_' called a distant voice, one that was hatefully familiar; the Mudblood. His hand still clasped to his burning cheek, Draco looked up to find her looking at him with mixture of worry, fear and determination in her eyes, and he looked upwards to see the effect of her spell; a shield of water now arced above his head, the tongues of fire that were beginning to fall with increasing rapidity hissing into steam above his head.

Draco scowled at Granger; though he knew that it had only been her quick spellwork that had saved him from a painful death, his hatred was too strong for him to care. She was stupid, saving the life of an enemy who could be a danger. He could have been tricking her – it was an idiotic, sentimental, Gryffindor action, to help him. And of course, how like perfect know-it-all Granger to have the exact charm that worked best against Blaise's spell…

There was a pause of only a moment, before Pansy, finding her voice, screamed, 'Traitor!' and cast another curse at him, which he deflected swiftly. The fight continued. But now Blaise and Pansy, the anger of betrayal in their eyes, were fighting not just Hermione, but Draco as well. He didn't want to fight them. He wanted to be on their side, wanted to bring the Mudblood screaming to her knees, but they'd never allow him, not now. He deflected their curses and didn't attack them, but they had to concentrate on two opponents now, and Hermione had more opportunity to attack them, to fight back. The two girls, to Draco's dismay, were very soon unconscious.

There was the briefest of pauses, time only to regain his breath and try to work out what would happen now. Granger was sweeping a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, red-faced and breathing hard, scanning the tight knots of battle around each of her two friends. Potter was holding his own, had even managed to knock out one of his opponents, but Weasley was doing badly and tiring.

Hermione glanced briefly at Draco, her eyes wary and suspicious. 'I don't know what side you're on or what the hell you're playing at,' she said shortly, 'but I'm finding out as soon as this is over. I'm going to help Ron.'

With that, she turned – another stupid Mudblood moment; _never_ turn your back on an enemy – and ran towards Ron. Draco glanced down at his two friends, Blaise and Pansy, lying bloody and beaten in the dirt. Slytherins didn't care for each other exactly, caring was weakness, and friendships were pointless. But you couldn't spend seven years in the same House, sitting together at meals, planning and plotting and laughing at your enemies without forming _some_ kind of bond.

His curse was calling him to protect Hermione; the back-up Slytherins, who'd patrolled the edges to ensure no one escaped, were closing in on her. But Blaise and Pansy… 'I'm sorry,' he whispered, startled to hear himself say the words. 'I didn't want to betray you. Forgive me,' he asked, though he knew they couldn't hear him and wouldn't forgive him if they had.

The curse dragged him back to the present situation; the three younger Slytherins were crowded around Hermione, and though she could easily take on fifth-years, three enemies at once were always difficult. Draco saw one of them cast a particularly nasty curse at her while she was distracted, and though he tried to stop himself his actions were involuntary: he muttered a deflection charm then knocked the fifth-year out. _Forgive me_, he pleaded again in his mind, though he knew no one would.

Hermione took out another fifth-year, then duelled briefly with the third, who held her own better than her comrades. But not well enough to defeat the best witch in seventh-year, aided by Draco, and she soon joined the others in the dust.

Granger gave Draco a quick nod of thanks with a brief, curious smile – how badly he wanted to tear or torture that smile off her face – then turned to Weasley. He was unsurprisingly doing badly, about to lose to the three murderous Slytherins attacking him. Hermione barged into the Slytherins' victory like an avenging angel, if Mudbloods were allowed to be angels. '_Cloaca!_' she shouted.

Draco watched from the sidelines, intervening to protect her whenever necessary, feeling the cruel chains of his servitude forcing his actions, making him act. The Slytherins knew he was a traitor – they'd seen him helping the Mudblood – and they attacked him along with the Gryffindors. Weasley gaped at him in outright shock, and Draco turned his head away, ashamed. He didn't attack his house comrades, merely deflected their curses from himself and Granger. _I'm sorry_, his eyes pleaded, _forgive me_… He was a traitor, came the unspoken replies from his fellow Slytherins, a traitor to their cause.

They were losing. There were only four of them left now, two of Potter's and two of Weasley's, all sixth-years, against the Gryffindor Trio. And Draco, to one side, cursed to protect Granger, blocking curses against his will. He tried his hardest, strained against the curse, but nothing worked. Nothing ever did.

'Retreat!' called one of the sixth-years desperately, a slender girl who was obviously scared, and Draco didn't blame her. 'We can't win!' The others, with the briefest of shared glances to confirm it, appeared to agree. The fight was over.

The Gryffindors – always chivalrous, always noble to the point of nausea, dropped back a few paces to let them escape, wands at the ready at the first sign of treachery. The remaining Slytherins gathered up the unconscious with hasty charms. Draco stood where the fighting had ended, head bowed and wand still gripped tightly in his hand, hating what he'd done, hating himself for doing it, most of all hating the Mudblood for being who she was, _what_ she was. He didn't need to look up to know that the Slytherins were glaring at him as they bore the unconscious away, into the bushes where the carriages were hidden, didn't need to be a Leglimens to know what they were thinking.

_Traitor_.

_Forgive me_…

They were gone, leaving him alone with the Gryffindors, and he longed to be able to kill them, to tear them apart for what they'd inadvertently done, and most of all to kill that Mudblood…

'Malfoy?' came her voice 'Malfoy, why…?'

He didn't stay to listen. Turning sharply, he strode off into the wood behind him, on the opposite side of the road to the Slytherins' retreat, ignoring Hermione's cry to 'Wait!' He pushed into the bushes, not looking up, not looking back, not looking anywhere but the ground in front of him and only that because he didn't want to trip. Once a little way in, where the undergrowth was less, he broke into a run, a run fuelled by anger and hatred and the desperate, unappeasable desire to kill.

His cheek was aching where Blaise's spell had burnt it, but he didn't care. He was a traitor, and he deserved to be hurt. He deserved the pain.

_Forgive me_…

* * *

**Latin Translations:** 'Ipsae Odium' translates as 'hatred of the self'. 'Imber Flammarum' is 'rain of flames', and 'Aquae Parma' means 'shield of water'

**A/N**: Thanks for reading! Part two will be up same time same place, next week. Until then, review! The characters are providing barrels of rotten tomatoes to fling at me for being so evil…


	2. Part Two: Crucio

**Cursed**

_Part 2: Crucio_

* * *

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I don't own Harry Potter or any related names, trademarks, objects e.t.c. They all belong to J.K.Rowling, though considering what I've done to poor Draco, I doubt she'll want him back now.

**Thanks for 24 reviews go to:** MoonDancerCat, Alyssium, Storm079, Raiast, willowfairy, x Fallen x Serpent x, mesmer, Kou Shun'u, Saraiyu, PINSXandXSPIKES, DarkRaven, lavender skies, OldTiddlina, Vfoxy713, Saotoshi, Flexi Lexi, Madam Midnight, PaganIceWand, Zek Majiri, Go10, BebopQueen, knivesgirl346, PinkTribeChick, nady.

**A/N:** Exams are decidedly evil and really rather exhausting. But they've been going okay so far, thankfully, apart from a couple of nasty questions… I hate it when you get nasty questions. Ah well…

Speaking of questions, I thought I should take the opportunity to answer some here. I don't always explain everything, mainly because with the characters involved it's rather tricky to do so; to explain things I'd have to step out of the story mid-narrative which would rather spoil the flow of the thing. Basically, if something happens you just can't figure out, think about the curse and whether things could hurt Hermione. Remember that there's emotional hurt as well as physical…

A few other questions: If Draco died, no one from his family would have to protect Hermione. Remember, the curse makes the sufferer protect the most powerful witch/wizard of the sufferer's generation, and Lucius isn't of Hermione's age group. Lucius does have to protect someone else, as does Voldemort – he's descended from Slytherin too, remember? I have my own theories as to who the two of them have to protect, but my betae have managed to come up with tons more ideas, and since it really doesn't matter to the story it's left open. Suggest any theories you may have, they make fun reading!

Draco's father does know, but he can't do anything about it. The only cure is Hermione's death, and if Lucius tried to kill her, Draco would be forced to kill his own father. Patricide isn't nice. He could tell his other classmates, but as you can see he finds the curse deeply shameful and disgusting, which would rather put him off telling anyone – plus what would the Slytherins do, welcome him back with open arms? There's also the possibility that the story of the curse would get round to Hermione, where it has the potential to hurt her – after all, she's had this letter-writer sending her letters since she was five, and though of him as 'my angel'. Finding out that it was a boy she hates under a curse after all this time would be rather disappointing, and disappointment is painful…

You may note that there are references to Norse mythology in this chapter. It hopefully shouldn't be too confusing, if it is, I'll do a little explanation of the myths at the beginning of the next chapter. And as to confusion: Godric didn't die at the beginning of the previous chapter; he was 'unconscious' – i.e. he fainted. Which is only to be expected after the death of a close friend and then the inadvertent casting of that powerful curse…

And that's really enough backstory; I should shut up now and let you read the actual story. Enjoy!

* * *

'_Malfoy_,' Ron muttered incredulously, staring into his Butterbeer. 'I mean… _Malfoy_.'

The trio of friends had been in the Three Broomsticks for an hour or so now. It had been almost empty when they'd first arrived, nursing various injuries from well-placed curses, and settled into a corner to recover. A couple of medical spells and some bottles of Butterbeer later, the cosy room was beginning to fill with students, flushed from the excitement of the trip and merrily gossiping about the earlier battle – Harry had told Seamus about it when he'd entered with Lavender hanging on his arm, and within minutes everyone had known.

Hermione shook her head, feeling faintly dizzy. 'I should have realised,' she said mournfully. 'His handwriting, it's the same as on the letters… I've seen his writing in Arithmancy, I should have _known_ it was him…'

'Don't beat yourself up about it, Hermione,' Ron told her, 'I mean, who'd have expected Malfoy to be helping you? It's not really obvious, a prat like that being the one who writes to warn you of things… how long did you say you'd been getting those letters for, Hermione?'

'Since I was five.' Hermione replied, and closed her eyes. She wanted to believe that this was all some bizarre and twisted nightmare, and she'd wake up in a minute to find the sun shining through the curtains and Crookshanks curled up at the bottom of her bed, covering her feet with hair.

But why believe something that wasn't true? It was obvious, now. His handwriting, the tone of the letters, the way he'd never been directly involved in an attack until today. It explained how the writer of the letters had so much inside information about the Slytherins' plans – he _was_ a Slytherin. It made _sense_…

Everything that had once made sense had been turned inside out. Malfoy was their enemy, the letter-writer was their friend, yet they were the same person. The voice that warned her of danger was the bully who'd attacked her friends and insulted her for years. The hint she'd needed to realise that the monster in the Chamber of Secrets was a Basilisk had been given by the very person they'd suspected of unleashing it. It was a complete paradox.

But it was true.

A voice broke her thoughts: Harry's. She recognised the tone, the _Oh! I just realised… _tone that she knew too well from endless evenings spent explaining things to him. 'Remember the Quidditch World Cup?' Harry asked. 'The Death Eaters playing with the Muggles?'

Hermione's eyes snapped open wide, the memory clear as daylight in her mind of Draco's silvery hair among the trees, his voice mocking her… _'D'you want to be showing off your knickers in mid air?'_

Except, he wasn't mocking, in the light of new information, he was… 'He was _warning_ me,' she whispered, suddenly cold. It was another piece of evidence, another nail in the coffin of the whisper of doubt that kept her world stable. 'He warned me…'

'What?' Ron asked, frowning. 'He sent you a letter at the Cup?'

'No,' Hermione explained, 'don't you remember, when we were hiding and we ran into him and he said…' She paused, feeling suddenly very shaken, the world as she thought it was falling apart, as though the true world could only be reflected in a broken mirror and hers had been whole till now.

Harry finished for her. 'He said that they were looking for Muggles and that they'd have Hermione spinning around in the air if they saw her. Or, in other words: Hide, Hermione, they'll hurt you. A warning.'

Ron was perplexed, his eyebrows almost meeting in the middle of his forehead. 'But he insulted her, he called her, you know a…' He made a vague hand gesture. _Mudblood_.

'It was still a warning.' Hermione pointed out distantly. 'He hates me and insults me and calls me names, but he warns me away from danger. We'd have been in the Hospital Wing five times over by now if he hadn't been warning us of the Slytherins' plans…'

'He hates you, yet he protects you.' Ron said questioningly. 'That doesn't make sense.'

It didn't: it was a paradox. An enigma, a puzzle, and Hermione found herself longing for a book called _'The Mystery of Malfoy: Explained'_, or _'101 Things You Didn't Know About Draco Malfoy'_ or even, she thought desperately, _'The Idiot's Guide to Draco Malfoy'_, because there had to be something obvious, something simple and easy that she'd overlooked.

'What are you going to do?' Harry asked, giving her a worried look. 'Are you okay? You look a little pale.'

'I'm fine,' she said automatically, and wondered what on earth she was going to do. She needed to know what Malfoy's motives were, his reasons, and however much she might wish it she wouldn't find the answer in any books. Which meant asking Draco herself. And he wouldn't answer, not without a lot of cajoling, and she didn't spend enough time with him to coax the answer out of him.

Sometimes they were together on Prefect rounds, and sometimes in Arithmancy or one of the other lessons they shared. But not often, not often enough…

Answer: _Make it so that they were together more often._

She knew the teachers well; they knew her and liked her. The same went for the Head Boy, who organised the rotas for Prefect duty. If she asked, and thought up good excuses, she could be paired with him in lessons and for joint homework projects and for Prefect duties… the best part of a day, often. And if she couldn't get the answer out of him then…

Hermione didn't feel adrift anymore, no longer lost in a world that had turned itself inside-out, become impossible and bizarre in a heartbeat. She had a problem, and she had her method of solving it, and that was enough of a foundation.

'I'm going,' she declared in reply to Harry, 'to find out why.'

* * *

The Slytherins hadn't forgiven him.

He'd been respected, before, feared for his name and his family and his influences. Now he was hated, vilified: the traitor and turncoat, the one who'd betrayed them to the Gryffindors. They'd told him, standing around him in front of the cold fire with all of Slytherin surrounding them, some mockery of a trial with no defence and no jury, only judgement.

_You have betrayed us; we do not forgive. From now and forever more you are not one of us. You are dead to us, and if we see you we shall treat you as a spirit, a shade, a dim and distant and hated memory. _

_You shall not eat among us: your place is at the end of the table, alone and separated from us, tolerated barely. You shall not sit among us in lessons: sit alone, or with the ones you betrayed us to. You shall not spend time among us in the evening, nor shall you sleep in our dormitory, nor shall you call any among our number by the name of friend. For sleep, you shall come past midnight to the common room, and sleep alone on a couch in front of the dying fire, and you shall leave by dawn._

_You are no longer a Slytherin._

Draco's hand tightened on his quill, a sharp stab of pain running through him at the memory, as though he'd taken the quill and stabbed its silver nib deep into his heart. He was a Slytherin; the blood flowed in his veins like snakes, and if he cut himself he half-expected he would bleed in green and silver. Slytherin was his home, his family, his friends and his self. Everything he was, everything he had ever been had its roots in Slytherin.

Now it wasn't. His roots had been torn away and he had fallen.

And all because of _her_. That was the worst part – not merely that he was a traitor to his own kind but that he had betrayed them for Granger, the filthy, ugly, unworthy Mudblood…

What he wouldn't do to her in an ideal world. She'd pay for unknowingly forcing his servitude, his protection, pay with blood and screams and pain a thousand times over. He'd tear her body, her dirty flesh, spill her tainted, unnatural blood on the ground till she begged for mercy, an animal with a human voice, an aberration, abomination in his eyes and fit only to torture; amusement for the pure ones.

He dreamt of it, thirsted for it. He had no control over his actions, but in his thoughts he had free reign and he could torture her again and again, listen to her screams, feel the satisfying slice of knife through flesh until he could almost believe he had control of himself, could do whatever he wished to her…

'Malfoy?'

He knew the voice; how could he fail to? It was the hated voice that filled his every burning moment of rage, the voice that shrieked and cried through his sweetest dreams. Granger.

He didn't look up, but his hand tightened on the quill, and he knew what he'd do if he could. With the point of the quill, scratch deep lines through her skin, her flesh, mixing ink with her unworthy blood. Scratch and scratch and scratch till he was down to bone. Write 'Mudblood' on her forehead in letters of blood, so the whole world would know what she was. Take her eyes out, perhaps, and leave the feather quill stabbed through her heart.

Protect.

'What do you want, Granger?' he spat harshly, not looking at her, scratching away at his essay, trying to imagine the soft parchment was her dirty skin.

To his revulsion, she sat down, sliding into the seat opposite him. Bluntly, she asked, 'Why did you help me?'

He didn't answer. At the back of his mind, he felt the twisted violent anger caused by her presence, so black and fierce that it wasn't really a feeling at all so much as an echo of a dream of torture, of screaming, of her filthy blood staining and soaking and splattering everything around. And because he hated her, he let the echo grow till it made pictures in his mind, pictures of what he would do if he were able.

'Malfoy…' she sighed, and even her sigh was a detestable thing to him, weak and pathetic and repulsive. 'Don't ignore me. I won't pretend I have a clue as to why you've done any of this… You've been sending me letters, warnings, since I was five. You've protected me more times than I can count, and I'm grateful for that, I really am. I always have been. I just feel… I deserve an explanation, that's all.'

_Scratch_. He wasn't even aware of what he was writing anymore; just focused on his imagination, the mental image of Hermione screaming in pain as he drove the point of the quill through her flesh again, and again, and again until it hung from her bones in crimson ribbons.

'Malfoy? I'm not going to be angry, if that's what you're thinking. And I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to. I just want to know why you did it. Why _you_ did it.'

Her hands, ugly Mudblood hands: he'd take the quill to them too. _Stab_ through the tendons on the backs of her hands, the ones that moved her fingers, making her hands useless immediately. Then slice away the skin around the knuckles, right down to the bone, and when they were visible, crush them, shatter them into pieces. Yes. He wanted it.

In front of him, her hands still unharmed, Hermione was frowning. 'Alright. Have it your way. But don't think I've given up,' she said, before standing and walking away. He looked up at that, watching her as she left, and any chance observer – though there were none on such a bright Sunday afternoon - would have seen the bloodlust in his eyes, the way he gripped his quill like a weapon.

* * *

He'd become a project, almost, a fascinating enigma, a silver-haired question mark that she needed to know the answer to. She'd even heard Lavender asking Ron about it, 'Don't tell me Hermione's taking up SPEW again! She's got that look in her eyes… tell me it's a new research project or something, please?' Ron had evasively replied that yeah, it was research, and left it at that.

She'd invented a huge range of excuses. She'd persuaded Louise, the sweet sixth-year Hufflepuff prefect, to complain to the Head Boy about having to patrol with Malfoy, and then bravely offered to swap partners with her. Professor Snape had been her next target: she'd annoyed him on purpose one lesson by acting 'far too keen for your own good, Miss Granger' which was followed by an irritated Snape vindictively pairing her with Malfoy.

Professor Aett, who taught Ancient Runes, had been harder, but Hermione had succeeded by telling her that she thought Hannah Abbot, who she sat next to in lessons, was trying to get Terry Boot to notice her – not, in fact, a lie: Hannah's attraction to Terry, and Terry's complete obliviousness to the fact, had been discussed by Lavender and Parvati at great length for the past week. As they'd all discovered when translating ancient love-stories written in the runic language, Professor Aett was rather a romantic, and had instantly agreed to help play matchmaker by swapping Hermione with Terry – leaving Hermione next to Malfoy and Terry next to Hannah.

The third and final subject that the two of them shared was Arithmancy, and she'd been unable to think of a better excuse to persuade Professor Vector than the one she was currently attempting to persuade him of, five minutes before class started.

'I mean, I think Padma's a really nice person,' Hermione was saying, giving the teacher an earnest look, 'but - I don't know how to put it - she's rather… _distracting_ in lessons. Please don't tell her any of this, I'd really hate it if she found out and got mad at me. But I'd like it if… if you could move me to sit somewhere else, Professor. I really feel my studies are important, especially with NEWTs coming up…'

'Hermione, you're top of the class already,' Professor Vector pointed out. 'But I suppose, if you feel uncomfortable, I could move you…'

Hermione felt a bubble of excitement as the professor checked the seating plan. 'Hmm. It looks like the only space free is next to Draco Malfoy… Blaise Zabini used to sit there, of course, but then she asked to be moved too. Oh dear, you students… Well, do you mind sitting with Malfoy? I know you two don't get on…'

'I'm sure we can manage it,' she replied with a smile. 'We both work very quietly, we won't even notice the other's there.'

'Alright then, Miss Granger,' Professor Vector said, making the alteration to his plan. 'You'd better go and sit in your new place, then. If you want something to do while you wait, I suggest you take a look at page 312, we're doing more work on graphical numerology today…'

She smiled her thanks, and slid into the new seat, pulling her textbook out of her bag. She opened it to the right page, but didn't read more than the first few lines; paying attention instead to her plans, to Malfoy, to how she was going to persuade him to talk to her.

It would take time, but that didn't bother Hermione. Making the Polyjuice potion in second year had taken a month. SPEW still hadn't achieved its aims, and wouldn't for years, possibly decades. With this project, with Malfoy, it could take any amount of time, from days to years. All she felt was the anticipation of a challenge, the excitement that came with puzzles and tests, and she smiled to herself at the thought of it.

The students arrived in twos and threes, taking their accustomed seats next to friends and acquaintances, some of them giving Hermione a cheery greeting as they walked past. She smiled back at them all, but today her friends and classmates weren't of interest to her.

_He_ was.

Malfoy tossed his bag onto the floor, scowling darkly at her. He leant over his desk, hands flat on the smooth wood with the wrists facing inwards, and asked with anger in his voice, 'Why are you sitting here?'

She kept her cool; too intrigued by his paradox to be afraid. She trusted the latter-writer implicitly, and Malfoy was the letter-writer; thus she lost any fear that he would hurt her. 'I asked Professor Vector to move me away from Padma,' Hermione explained, 'and this seat was the only spare…'

'Why are you stalking me?' he demanded, his voice like a snake's would be if it learnt to speak, and his eyes were the colour of silver set on fire, of burning ice: in that moment he looked like an angel of Hell.

Still, Hermione knew – by logic, by intelligence, by instinct – that he wouldn't hurt her, and his rage only made her the more fascinated. 'Because I want to know why you helped me,' she said simply.

His expression darkened like a cloud passing over the sun, his eyes closing. 'I'm not going to tell you, Granger.'

'You will,' she said confidently.

With visible reluctance, he slid into his seat, pulling out his books. 'Believe what you want. _Mudblood_.'

The insult meant nothing, and they both knew it. Hermione had the power over him here.

* * *

'I'm not sure which myth is my favourite. I mean, all the stories are really fascinating, and the Norse pantheon contains some really intriguing characters. I always liked Thor,' Hermione said, tapping the tip of her quill against her lip thoughtfully, 'because he got into such interesting adventures. Like the time he went to Utgard with the giants, and they tricked him with all those competitions. Like making him drink out of that horn that turned out to be the ocean, and making him wrestle with Old Age, or lift the cat that was really the Midgard Serpent – Jormungand, was it?'

Draco didn't reply. She hadn't expected he would – after all, she'd spent the entire lesson talking to him and meeting with a stony silence.

It was getting rather annoying. Hermione knew she'd be mad to expect to find out anything so quickly; that was why she was talking to him about meaningless things, in an attempt to tempt him out of his silence, to make him used to speaking to her so that, when she asked him why he helped her, he'd answer.

But he wouldn't speak. It had been five days since the Arithmancy lesson, when he'd refused to tell her and spat an insult, and since then he hadn't spoken a word to her, no matter what she spoke to him about. Currently, she was onto Norse mythology.

'I hated Balder's death though. Before I read that one, I really liked Loki. He was… witty. Amusing. And then he turned out to be a murderer…' Hermione sighed and scribbled for a minute. 'Have you read any of the Norse myths?'

Silence.

Hermione began to feel desperate. He couldn't keep silence forever, stone-grey eyes fixed, unmoving, to white parchment. He seemed to hate her, yet he had to have a reason for protecting her all those years, for trying to keep her safe. So why did he refuse to at least speak to her?

She looked at him, closed her eyes. _Please, please, please just say something Malfoy, let me know you can be reached, you'll speak to me…_

'What did you think about the death of Balder? Tell me that much,' she said, unable to keep a note of pleading from her voice.

To her amazement, Draco's stiff shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, and though he didn't move his eyes from the parchment, he spoke – actually _spoke_. 'I thought Frigg was an idiot. She got everything in the world to promise not to harm Balder and, not only did she neglect to ask the mistletoe, she told the first mad old woman who came wandering along that she hadn't asked it.'

His voice was bitter, he hadn't even looked at her, but he'd spoken, he'd responded, and Hermione couldn't help but grin. 'I thought that too,' she said.

* * *

Draco had thought he'd hated her as much as it was possible to hate; a hate born as a child and brewed to bitterness as he grew older, simmered slowly through his veins, his skin, his eyes, his bones, his heart, until every particle of his being was burnt black by hatred for her, raw and bloody and ready to kill.

He'd been wrong.

Because now, after a week forced to spend time with _her_, a week as an outcast because of _her_, a week spent talking to _her_ and laughing with _her_ and acting civilly to _her_, he hated Hermione even more.

He didn't want to act civilly to Granger, he didn't even want to speak to her. Ideally, in his most beautiful of dreams and wished-for of desires, there was a dagger and a wand and blood and _screaming_…

He couldn't do that. He had to _protect_ her, and the word was filthy to his tongue.

It was night. Usually, he'd have gone to the library and studied, Granger-free, until he was certain the Slytherin common room would be empty, then stolen in late to what had been his home and sanctuary, to which he was now a pariah.

Because of her.

But tonight he had Prefect duties, patrolling the halls and ensuring no student was breaking the rules, and the Mudblood bitch had arranged it so he was forced to patrol with her. She walked beside him now in the moonlight, looking like some filthy creature that had crawled out of the slime in the bottom of a cauldron, and he felt almost sick to look at her.

'So Dean was saying that apparently one in ten people has a third nipple-' Hermione gave a little snort of laughter, 'and of course there were ten of us at the table. So Seamus said, 'Alright, own up, whoever has a third nipple stand up _now,_' –and then Ron hadn't been listening, you see, and he stood up to go…' Hermione dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Draco laughed too, a false laugh because she would be upset if he didn't, but though outwardly he was amused, inwardly the hatred burnt away. Even her laugh was repulsive, an ugly sound to his ears, coarser than a donkey's braw and more irritating than nails on a chalkboard. Her very voice grated on his nerves like a discordant song played on a scratchy, out-of-tune violin. And why did she annoy him with such petty, ignorant, stupid little stories?

He had to speak. He could feel her waiting for it, the pressure from inside his own self that told her she would be hurt, embarrassed, if he didn't speak, that compelled him to say something…

'Silly. He should have been paying attention,' he said, with a smile and a shake of the head. What the filthy Mudblood wanted: what wouldn't hurt her. She beamed, and he hated her smile.

'Ron's like that,' she said, 'Silly sometimes. He's a really good friend, though.' Her eyes flickered towards him, hesitant. 'What about your friends?'

She gave him a soft sort of smile, and he wondered how fast it would turn to a gasp of horror if he put his hands round her disgusting neck and squeezed, how her eyes would turn from gentle warmth to horror to desperation and at last to the glaze of sweet death…

He shrugged. She would be hurt if he lied to her, so, 'I don't really speak to any of my old friends any more.'

Sympathy, and he wanted to claw her to ribbons for it and leave her bleeding heart lying in… 'Why?' Hermione asked. 'Did you argue with them, or…'

The curse didn't require him to answer, but always it pressed on him, _be civil, be kind, laugh when she needs you to_. What he would do without that curse…

'Is it…' Realisation crossed her face. 'Because they found out you were helping me?'

He didn't reply at first, cursing her, _yes it is, filthy, disgusting, all your fault, all because of you and this curse and claw tear rip shred blood skin flesh bone pain screams…_

'Is it?' she asked, softly but with a pleading note to her tone, _tell me Draco_, and the loathsome curse pressed on him and forced the words to his mouth lest he hurt her with his silence.

'Yes, it was. Don't blame yourself. None of it was your fault,' he said firmly, because she was already looking guilty and he couldn't let her be hurt however much he desired it, and she bit her lip and looked up at him and he wanted a dagger to tear through lip and cheek and jaw…

'I'm sorry. Really,' she was saying. 'I don't want… I mean, I wish they didn't know, that you could still be friends with them. Will they ever forgive you?'

Never, but she didn't want to hear that, however much he wanted to scream at her and tear her apart with his bare hands, look what you did to me, you made them all hate me, you made me a traitor and an outcast and look at your blood on my hands in my hair…

'Eventually,' he said with a soft smile, 'None of it was your fault. Don't talk to me about them, they're foolish idiots who judge people on their alliances and friends and enemies as if that were all that mattered. Talk to me of something else, Hermione.'

They walked on through the endless prison of the night, Draco smiling and talking and laughing, hating and loathing and wishing for the sweet music of her screams as he drowned her in her own blood.

* * *

**A/N:** You may have noticed this already, but Draco's a little… er… nuts. In fact, to quote my dear Delta and Weasley twin,

_Wow. Draco is so psycho. P-S-Y-C-H-O. PSYCHO. Mental. Insane. Several knuts short of a sickle. Several galleons short of a bank. Many bristles short of a broom. Freaky. Whacked out. So far over the 'Insane' line that he couldn't see it with Omnioculars. Mental._

Will things get any better for our poor Draco? Can they get any _worse_? Well… you'll have to wait and see, won't you?

I'd also like to note that the line about stabbing his quill through the tendons in Hermone's hands was inspired by a Maths lesson when a decidedly insane friend was stapling the back of her hand and hit a tendon. I, of course, moved so far away from the madwoman I ended up in the aisle... The briefly-mentioned Louise is a nod to my wonderful Delta and friend of that name, and my invented name for the Runes teacher - Professor Aett - comes from runic terminology: an 'aett' is a 'family' or group of runes in the Elder Futhark, the most common runic alphabet. Hermione's 'third nipple' incident is also from real life: it happened one lunchtime at my school, which me in the unfortunate part that Ron played...

And of course, there's still another week's worth of story to go. While you're waiting, review! For every review, Draco gets two hours away from Hermione. How can you refuse that poor, tortured boy?

Review!


	3. Part Three: Avada Kedavra

**Cursed**

_Part Three: Avada Kedavra_

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Harrius Potter non meus est. (No one ever said disclaimers had to be in English, after all…)

**Thanks for 48 reviews go to:** Pheonix, Ives, Go10, willowfairy, lavenderskies, Monitor, Storm079, Madam Midnight, knivesgirl346, Kou, Shun'u, Mother Zephyr, doce, jules37, PINSXandXSPIKES, Gizelle, Shouri Malfoy, MoonDancerCat, mesmer, Flexi Lexi, Saraiyu, Paganicewand, PinkTribeChick, Saotoshi, Raiast.

**A/N:** I find it an odd but intriguing coincidence that last week, my review count was 24, and this week it's 48. I wonder if it'll be 72 the time I update Fallen next week…

… because, yes, this is the last part of Cursed, and yes, Fallen updates resume as normal next week! Only two more exams to go! Celebrate!

Until last night, I hadn't had time to write anything for over a fortnight, which was resulting in some serious writing-deprivation. Then yesterday, Fawkes Ashes (a wonderful forum for HP lovers, the link to which is in my profile, end of shameless plug) started a new writing challenge. I decided, in order to limber up those writing muscles, that I'd make a start on my entry before I began the new chapter of Fallen. Which I did. And then I didn't stop.

As a result of this, 'He Was Brave Enough' can now be found on my profile. Have fun.

And with that, to the final chapter of Cursed. I think this is the only story in which, even though my reviewers (lovely reviewers!) like the story, reading my reviews page leaves me soundlessly mouthing, 'I'm so so so _sorry_!' Some of you can say really ironic things without knowing it.

Anyway, you're here for the story, and more of poor, poor Draco. Enjoy.

* * *

It was one of those early spring days where the Earth seemed to have forgotten the natural order of the seasons and raced ahead, laughing, into summer. The trees had put out their brightest, freshest leaves to play in the breezes; daisies and buttercups graced the lawns with silver and gold, and all the students of Hogwarts were enjoying the sunshine, Slytherin and Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, all lazing on the cool grass or racing each other in the shade of the trees.

Some of the Quidditch-lovers had brought out their broomsticks, and a mad variation of the game had begun in the Quidditch stadium. There was at least twice the usual number of people playing, so they'd brought out twice the number of balls – two Quaffles and two Snitches, though they'd left the Bludgers behind, and a cacophony of a game had begun, with everyone seemingly attempting to play every position at once, flying madly in and out and up and down and twisting through the goalposts. No one was bothering to keep score, or even to pay any attention to what the teams were; it had become a glorious free-for-all.

Harry, Ron and Ginny were playing, and though they'd attempted to persuade Hermione to join them, she'd refused.

'I'm supposed to be meeting Draco,' she'd explained, and though they'd protested that Draco would want to join in the game, she'd shaken her head. Over the past month, the boys had learnt to tolerate Draco; perhaps even like him, but for some reason Hermione wanted him to herself today. It was too beautiful a day to share him with anyone else.

And so she was sitting on a rock near the lake, toying idly with a daisy and thinking about Draco. A month had passed since she'd discovered the identity of the mysterious letter-writer, perhaps a little more, but it was still amazing how much her perception of him could change in that short space of time.

When she'd tried to get him to speak to her, to tell her why he'd helped her, he'd refused to speak at fist. But then conversation came, in short answers and meagre sentences, and they'd led to longer speech, to full and free-flowing conversations, discussions, debates that had kept her in the library talking until well after her preferred bedtime.

Draco had proven himself much different to the childish annoyance he'd been throughout their first few years. Now his childhood taunts had run to a sharp-tongued wit that always, to Hermione, seemed well-placed and superbly observed. His cruelty had hidden kindness; his sneers had covered smiles and laughter, and his harsh exterior had slipped away to reveal an intelligent man with a love of knowledge equal to Hermione's own. He seemed to encompass everything she could ever want in a friend – she couldn't think of a single quality of his that upset her or hurt her.

He hadn't told her why he'd helped her, but she didn't mind any more. It didn't seem to matter. Indeed, it gave him an air of mystery, reminded her there were still parts of him she didn't know, avenues of the labyrinth of his mind down which she hadn't walked, only caught glimpses of in a razor-edged smile, in a black glint of his pale eyes.

She almost didn't notice him walking towards her, wearing his habitual black and nothing but. Hermione privately thought he looked best in black, or shades of grey. Malfoy was pale skin and silvery eyes and white-blonde hair, and it was a crime to mar that monochrome with colour. White didn't suit him, making him look altogether too pale, like a ghost. Black was perfect, and as she looked up to see him walking across the path towards her, he looked like the child of the moon by the midnight sky, misplaced in the golden daylight.

But he was smiling at her, the open, warm smile she had come to trust and adore, and holding out a hand like a gentleman to help her up. 'Sorry if I'm late,' he said. He wasn't late; five minutes too early.

Hermione took his hand – it felt warm and firm – and stood up. 'I should be the one saying sorry,' she apologised, feeling guilty, 'I'm the one who had to run off last night in the middle of the conversation…'

'Don't worry about it, I understand,' he said reassuringly. 'Helping Neville with Charms was far more important.'

She smiled, and was about to speak when a roar came from the Quidditch stadium, catching both their attentions. Unbidden, Harry's remark from earlier came back to her, echoed in her mind, _won't Draco want to join in the Quidditch?_ He would, Hermione knew, and she felt strangely selfish for wanting to keep him to herself without caring what he'd want.

Hoping he'd say 'no', she asked anyway. 'Do you want to… to go play Quidditch? I wouldn't mind if you did,' she said, knowing it was a lie – she wanted to talk to him, to be around him, and she would mind if he went…

To her delight, he shook his head. 'I'm not in the mood for Quidditch,' he explained, 'and I'd rather carry on with our conversation anyway. Where were we?'

Beaming widely, she reminded him, and they sat down together on the smooth rock and talked for hours.

* * *

Days and nights and further days passed by, caught up in a whirl of glorious weather, of lessons and studying and conversations with him, with Draco. The time she spent with him seemed to stand out somehow, like silvery stars in the soft black night, or sunbeams across the grey stones of a forgotten castle.

And she remembered the way he spoke, the light in his eyes as he thought of something to add to their discussion, the gentle way he laughed, the electric feeling when his hand brushed hers accidentally, the way she sometimes couldn't think for the gentle sweep of his pale skin, the curve of his lips…

Ginny, sitting beside her on the sofa in the Gryffindor common room, poked her sharply in the ribs.

'What was that for?' Hermione protested, frowning and rubbing her side.

'Because you were off in dreamland,' Ginny pointed out, giving a furtive glance around. They were reasonably alone; Ron and Harry were off playing chess together on the other side of the common room with a small cluster of people gathered round to watch, and the sofas around the two girls were reasonably abandoned.

'So,' Ginny asked slyly, 'what were you thinking about?'

'Hmm? Oh, nothing…'

Ginny cocked her head on one side, giving Hermione a disbelieving look. 'It was quite definitely something, Hermione. And if my guess is right, an attractive _male_ something?'

Hermione coloured. 'Well, I suppose…'

'A freakishly-blonde, mysterious, ferrety, _Draco Malfoy_ something?' Ginny asked triumphantly.

'… Yes.' Hermione admitted very quietly, then sighed and leant back into the cushions of the sofa, avoiding her friend's grin. 'I just… I mean, I know he's been a prat for ages, but he just doesn't…'

'Act like a prat anymore?' Ginny said knowingly, and Hermione nodded, then bit her lip.

'All the stuff that happened in the past six years… it seems like it was a completely different person. He's so different now. He's kind, and caring, and intelligent, and he never hurts me. Not even in little things, like going off to play Quidditch when I want to talk to him, or saying something I don't like, he never does anything like that. And its just the way he smiles…'

Ginny, if possible, grinned even wider. 'You've got it _bad_,' she remarked. 'Completely head-over-heels…'

Hermione thought for a moment. She'd had a feeling that she might be falling in love, frightening though the concept may be, for some time. And remembering the way she'd felt around him lately, the way he made her smile...

'I guess… I do.' She said slowly. 'Ginny? What should I say?' she added with a note of panic.

'Perhaps you should try telling him and asking if he feels the same?' Ginny pointed out.

'What if he doesn't…'

'Don't go into what-ifs, they never help.' Ginny told her firmly. 'He's nice, a lot nicer than I ever thought he could be… if he doesn't feel the same he won't be too hard on you. And if you don't ask, you'll regret it for ages.'

Hermione remained unconvinced. 'I don't know, he wouldn't even love someone like me…'

'Hermione!' Ginny cut in firmly. 'Look, he obviously likes you, look how much time he spends with you. Every time you ask to see him he always agrees, he always seems to be spending time with you… I'd say you have a damned good chance of him saying yes.'

When Hermione still looked worried, Ginny frowned at her. 'Come on, where's your Gryffindor courage?'

Hermione almost laughed. 'Ginny, it's not like…'

The redhead wouldn't let her friend finish. 'You're a Gryffindor, aren't you? Brave and daring? So go on, show me that bravery. Say you'll tell him.'

'I don't…'

'Tomorrow.'

Hermione gave Ginny a look of desperation, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 'Okay,' she said at length, 'Tomorrow.'

* * *

He glanced at his hands and they didn't belong to him, couldn't belong to him, because they were normal pale-skinned _human_ hands and he wasn't human, didn't feel human. He had been human once, before, but all of that was forgotten in the burning black mass of hate that engulfed him, drowned him, stole his blood and filled his veins with black shadows that snarled and twisted and burned with hatred and goodness help him he wanted more of it, wanted to hate more and more and more until it burned his mind away and left him a shell.

She was there. Couldn't she see what a monster she was? How foul and filthy, how ugly, her skin slimy and repulsive to the touch, her face twisted and malformed, her hair a stinking, tangled, disgusting mess. How did she live in such a polluted skin, how could she keep herself from leaping off the highest tower of Hogwarts in despair of her own fetid, revolting self?

Mudblood. Dirt and filth. Sewers took the place of her veins, and if you cut her, she would not bleed, merely leak foul waste and effluent. How he wanted that, to rip and tear her disgusting flesh to shreds, to crush her filthy bones. He'd tear her rotting eyeballs from her skull, block up the back of the eye sockets, and place maggots in the cavities before sewing the eyelids shut. Yes. _Mudblood_.

She toyed with the fabric of her robe and he hated her for it, hated with a deep and unchanging passion everything about her. She bit her lip, and all the fires of Hell, burning inside his heart, screamed out at the nauseating repulsion of that act.

'Draco…' she said slowly, and her voice was loathsome enough to make an angel claw through its breast and crush the heart that beat there to a pulp, purely to escape the horror of living in a world where such an abomination as _she_ existed. 'I… well, I wanted to ask you something…'

He smiled, a soft and gentle smile, while in his head he tore her sickening head from her shoulders and tore and tore and tore with his bare fingers till the putrid flesh came away from the bone, decomposed jelly in his hands. 'Go on,' he invited.

'Well… I don't want to spoil our friendship. And I don't want to put any pressure on you, or anything, but…' She looked up at him, nervousness in every line of her twisted mockery of a face, and said, 'Do you think… do you… love me?'

He hated her. So much he would tear her apart if he could, mash her flesh and crush her bones to powder and smear it out of existence, so much he would torture her if he could, slice pieces of decaying flesh from her own skin and feed them to her, carve words into her abhorrent body, _Mudblood, Filthy, Foul, Loathsome_, and feed her suffering to the fires in his own heart, the only sacrifice that could appease his bark black hatred…

_…may they be bound never to harm them by word, blade or spell…_

And the curse pressed in on him again, the chains inside his own blood, compelling him to smile in surprise and affection and love when he wanted to tear rip shred slash scratch slice…

Because if he didn't love her, _it would hurt her_…

'You mean… you love me?' he asked, and when she nodded he took her fetid aberration of a body into his arms and held her close and whispered softly in her vile ear, 'I love you too.' And then he drew back to plant a kiss on her repugnant lips and taste the flavour of rot and corruption and filth and feel nothing but the burning desire to rip her unworthy flesh in chunks and bites as she kissed him back with sweet love and he needed to scream and scream and scream in horror and disgust but couldn't because _it would hurt her_…

* * *

Summer came early that year, and brought long, golden days that saw the students gazing longingly out of the windows in their hot, stuffy classrooms, then abandoning the cool grey stone for evenings of basking in the glorious rays. For the seventh and fifth years, facing NEWT and OWL examinations, it was torture; long hours spent in the lifeless library while the sunbeams filtered through the windows, turning specks of dust into diamonds.

But they did manage some time off, and when even Hermione became sick of leafing through fat books her friends and boyfriend dragged her outside, laughing, to sit on the cool grass and drink in the sunshine.

'Okay, you were right,' Hermione agreed, turning her face to the sunlight, 'I _do_ need a break. I feel like I haven't breathed fresh air in years.'

Draco was sitting beside her, and she wished idly that he'd slip an arm around her waist, let her rest her head on his shoulder. He was an ideal boyfriend; she could hardly believe that this was the boy who'd been such an annoyance in her childhood. Now he was kind, considerate and attentive, always seeming to know what she wanted, what she needed. He never hurt her.

And she felt so lucky, to be loved by a boy like him…

Ron, sitting opposite from them, grinned and lay down full length on the grass. 'It's brilliant to be out of that library,' he said.

'I think my brain's going to explode if I try to learn any more,' Harry complained, rubbing his head. 'And I'm forgetting it all already…'

'You'll be fine,' Hermione murmured lazily, and just when the skin on her back began to ache for his touch, Draco slid his arm around her as she'd wanted, and she turned her head into his shoulder with a smile. She was barely aware that she wanted him to kiss her forehead until he did.

Her eyes were closed, already tired after the day's hard work in the library, but she felt the gentle tickle across her hand of what she realised was Ron throwing some grass at them. 'Cut it out, you two, you'll make me throw up,' he told them mock-seriously.

When she'd told them that Draco and she were partners, in love, they'd taken it very well. After all, he'd been protecting her from her childhood, although they didn't know why, and they'd watched Draco acting kindly to Hermione, seen the way she looked at him, the way they talked together late into the night. Harry didn't bear grudges, and Ron had managed to put his aside, and they'd accepted Draco.

But Ron had never had a stomach for public displays of affection, and Hermione laughed a little at his reaction, brushed the grass away, and kissed Draco on the cheek, feeling the tug of his skin beneath his lips as he smiled.

He turned his face and caught her lips with his own for a brief chaste kiss that her lips had been aching for, and then rested his forehead against hers as Ron grumbled at them and Harry laughed.

She looked into his beautiful grey eyes, a sheen of happiness and love dancing just below their surfaces, and knew she would never stop loving him.

* * *

Night, and the Room of Requirement was small and dimly-lit with a bathroom en-suite. A large soft bed was the room's main feature, the thick carpet that surrounded it littered with abandoned clothing, and tangled in its sheets lay a couple, boy and girl, their bodies still glistening with sweat, arms round each other.

Her head was buried in his chest, and he stroked her hair softly as she fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, but the moment her breathing slowed enough to show that sleep had claimed her his fingers froze, a soft sob torn from his throat.

_Mudblood filthy disgusting foul and dirty and I touched tasted kissed loved…_

He began to shake, eyes wide and blank with horror, and the softest cry escaped his lips, a cry of utter despair.

'No…'

_…No, no, no, this couldn't have happened, filthy creature, disgusting, freak of nature, aberration and I held stroked squeezed no no no no no…_

He began to push her away, still shaking, trying desperately to disentangle himself from the sheets that tied him to the repulsive _thing_, the shadows making her a monster, not human at all. He couldn't wake her up; the curse would make him stay close because it would hurt her if he left…

She didn't wake. He pushed himself away from her and fell to the floor on his hands and knees, his whole body trembling and shaking and nausea curling in his stomach.

_… filth her filth all over me in my mouth on my hands on my skin seeping into my blood she'll make me as filthy as she is no no no please let this not have happened please…_

Bathroom. He tried to stumble to his feet, but his legs refused to hold him, so he crawled naked on his knees to the door. His breath came hard, as though he'd just been tortured, and a hard cry – though not so loud as to wake her, it would hurt her to see this – escaped his lips as his shoulder shook and his head bowed, broken, spilling silver-blond strands across the carpet.

_…please no…_

He made it to the bathroom, clinging to the doorknob and fumbling with it, unable to open it; his hands were shaking and his vision blurred by tears and he was going to throw up. It opened, eventually, taking pity on him.

_… not a Mudblood, not that, anything but filthy dirt all over me stinking no…_

He pushed himself to his knees, clinging to the cold porcelain sides of the toilet, and he did what he'd wanted to do since he'd opened the door earlier that night and realised what was going to happen. He vomited. His body heaved as he brought up everything in his stomach, continued to heave even when nothing was left as though it was trying to purge itself of some foulness it couldn't reach.

_…her touch, her hands on my pure skin Mudblood kisses sighing and moaning and no no no no filthy my skin filthy with her kisses her touch no…_

He slumped to the floor, his stomach finally silent, his hair matted with sweat and clinging to his forehead. Curling into a foetal position, he moaned, tears filling his eyes and spilling down his cheeks, sobbing without shame. Why should he feel shame? All his dignity, all his pride, had already been battered down and beaten and tortured, burnt black by _her_ touch, _her_ kisses, _her_ love.

He needed to be clean. He opened his eyes and looked with blurry vision at his hands, and though there was no visible mark on their pure white flesh he could feel it, the foulness that coated them after touching her skin. There was a shower in one corner; he dragged himself towards it.

_… please please no let me clean myself wash myself get the dirt filth off me out of my skin out of my blood how will I ever be clean again after her after this…_

Unable to stand, he sat in the bottom of the shower and reached up with shaking hands to the controls, thankfully positioned low, and turned it on. The water poured out, cold at first, then tepid, lukewarm, warm, hot, scalding. He let it sizzle round him, turning his skin bright red with its heat. If the water couldn't wash her touch off him, the heat might help…

_… how will I ever be clean again no soap can clean her off me no water can wash this away her touch no no no her touch no no please make it not have happened take it away hurts too much…_

He leant his head against the wall, fingernails biting his palm, and cried out at the torture, the horror of it all. Water couldn't clean him; he grabbed the soap from the small shelf half-way up the cubicle and scrubbed as hard as he could but it couldn't erase the memory of her touching him, kissing him, loving him, and having to touch and kiss and love back when he really wanted to tear and rip and kill…

_… why please why no no no why can't I kill her please knife slice through skin screaming aaaaaa her screams not mine I've screamed too much her turn her pain she made me suffer why can't I make her suffer why why please…_

The soap had slipped from his hands; now he scratched at his flesh with his fingernails, as if he could scrape away the torment of her touch. His nails cut, the water making each thin slice agony, but he didn't care, he had to be clean, to be pure again.

Nothing worked, and he tipped his head back with the water pouring down his naked body and screamed in anguish, water filling his mouth, then crumpled till his head was on the floor and shook with torment.

_… no no no no no why this why this torture I can't escape no way out everything hurts her every whim I have to follow every desire no no please let me out of this why can't it all end why can't I die…_

His eyes flickered open.

The shelf which he'd taken the soap from had also held a razor.

_… I want to die yes please please let me die this will work I can escape no more torture no more pain her touch filth disgusting never be clean again death yes yes…_

Breathing heavily, shaking, his hand closed on the razor's slim handle; it was made of cheap plastic and took only a moment for him to smash the head open on the tiled floor, leaving the blade glittering on the floor. He picked it up, pressed it to his wrist, took a last gulp of air and sliced as hard as he could.

_… death death please let me die let this end no more her to more touching filth disgusting freak yes die…_

Something was wrong.

He'd slashed with all his strength, but the blade had only produced the faintest of lines, only a single drop of blood beading on his skin to be washed away by the water.

He sliced it across his skin again, pressing as hard as he could, and again and again until he screamed in desperation.

_… want to die need to die only escape why won't it cut it's sharp want to die blood my pure blood not her filthy blood spiral down the drain want to die escape end why can't I…_

He tried again to slice his arm, desperate for the end, and in a sudden horrible torturous epiphany he knew what was wrong.

_… my dead body blood everywhere under the shower she finds it in the morning screaming crying hurting I want it want it so much…_

But, if he killed himself… he would hurt her.

* * *

**A/N:** And yes, that is the end…

Now I shall quietly Polyjuice my worst enemy into myself, then leave them behind to face the approaching hoards of furious Draco-lovers bearing pitchforks…

Or you may want to take the advice of Lou, who asked me, 'What's the final A/N? A comment on how you deserve to be burnt at the stake? And this is the antichrist saying this. Your evilness disgusts me.' Of course, she also pointed out that I've quoted her in my A/Ns of every chapter I've written so far, so I immediately vowed not to do so in this one… oops…

Anyway. I'm going to run off quickly now, before the pitchfork-bearing masses discover they've got the wrong person and tear me to pieces. If you want to tear me to pieces, do so in your reviews – it's anger management, you know!

Review?


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